At the North Sea Canal

The wind never leaves the dike, but today it is warm and heavy. Pleasure boats cling to the banks to avoid the giants: hulks with names like Seaways Mystery, registered in tax havens they will never see. A Russian shadow-fleet tanker crawls past, dragging oil and hypocrisy in its wake. Then a pancake boat sweeps by, powdered sugar in the air, ABBA at full blast. My dog inhales and wags.

I turn. Where a grim ruin from the Battle of Stalingrad once stood, a distribution centre now squats. The company crows that vacancy in its property portfolio has dropped to a historic zero. Thirty-three loading bays gleam in fresh paint, all empty. The offices along the sides are pure theatre, clown noses glued to concrete.

A truck arrives. The tailgate drops. First-time buyers spill out with their furniture. Another truck brings single mothers; students arrive on bicycles. At last, the concrete earns its keep.

Then a civil servant appears, flanked by waiters with trays and policemen with batons. On the menu: legal objections, with zoning and environmental garnishes. A dry wind sweeps the place clean.

The loading bays smile. Their vacancy is historic once more. The civil servant knows: empty rules, empty concrete, empty lives, urban planning at its finest.